


memorialized

by kiscico



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 16:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14085183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiscico/pseuds/kiscico
Summary: It may have been seventy years since World War II for all of his new friends, but it's been less than one for him. Steve tries to find some equilibrium in the twenty-first century, and finally starts to come to terms with losing his Bucky. Post-Avengers, Pre-CAWS.





	memorialized

It’s a strange feeling seeing his life picked apart and memorialized, tucked away in glass display cases and forty foot tall banners. The first time he goes to the Captain America exhibit in the Smithsonian, is soon after Tony first teases him about it.

“Well, after all, you’re literally a museum grade antique,” Tony snarks at him from over a dismantled… something. Steve is seated at a workbench in Tony’s shop ( _It’s not a laboratory, I may be a mad scientist, Steven, but not a mad doctor. That would be Bruce_ ). Tony has something very technical (and expensive-looking) torn apart in front of him. He’s wearing a tank top which does nothing to hide the glow of his arc reactor, and he’s greased up to his elbows. He doesn’t look anything like a billionaire, as far as Steve can tell. He also looks more at home, and more relaxed, more open than any other time Steve’s seen him. Despite their frequent personality clashes (Pepper’s term, not Steve nor Tony’s), Steve’s found that he genuinely enjoys talking with Tony. 

Steve has come to very much appreciate that Tony never pulls punches. He never patronizes, in fact he goes out of his way to pick at Steve’s lack of knowledge of the twenty first century. He’s the one that instigates Steve’s notebook of things to research. Tony also presents him with a brand new Stark tablet, with a fold out physical keyboard for when Steve gets too frustrated with the touchscreen. And then proceeds to give him a lecture about the unreliability of Wikipedia, and how to access Encyclopedia Britannica instead. Steve is thrilled to find that it’s set up like the physical books he used as a kid in school. 

But at the moment, he’s not thinking about Tony’s project, or the internet, or encyclopedias. He is wondering what Tony means by museum grade. 

“What do you mean by museum grade?”

“JARVIS, pull up the advertisement for the Smithsonian exhibit on Steve.”

“Of course, sir.” As JARVIS responds, and one of the many holoscreens flashes to life with bold colored images of his face. Or rather, of the Star Spangled Man with a Plan. It’s an exhibit about Captain America. Steve stands and starts swiping through the screens like Tony taught him. (No, not like waving away a fly, more like running your finger through syrup. What? Don’t make fun of my analogies). It’s image after image from the war. Tour posters, film stills, and a few from Camp Lehigh. And there. A picture of him with the Howling Commandos.

“Where is this?” Steve looks up to find Tony looking at him with an unparsable expression.

“DC, at the Smithsonian Museum of American History.” Another long look, “You really didn’t know about it?”

“No. How would I?”

“I figured someone would have told you where all of your stuff went. Technically, you could claim a lot of it back. If you wanted.” Tony refocuses his attention on the machinery laid out in front of him. “If you want anything back from the exhibit, let me know and I’ll loan you Pepper’s law team.” 

 

The next morning Steve finds an all day pass to the Smithsonian and the keys to one of Tony’s motorcycles next to his coffee. Tony is nowhere in sight, but Steve takes the hint anyway. He’s halfway to DC from New York, before he wonders if he’s really prepared to see what the museum has of his. He’s not sure if he’s ready to see what’s already been put on display for the whole world to see. 

Before he can really convince himself to turn around and head back to the still-being-renovated Stark Tower, he’s parking and heading into the museum.

It’s culture shock all over again. He’s suddenly surrounded by Uncle Sam posters and advertisements for Star Spangled Man tours. It’s not until he gets to the section on the Howling Commandos that he really starts regretting this trip. He spends a very long time staring at the display of the Howling Commandos uniforms. Mostly staring at Bucky’s uniform and the giant color photographs of his old team. 

There’s a voice over in that section that helpfully points out that James Buchanan Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in the service of his country. Steve suddenly can’t breathe. His lungs are half frozen with Austrian air and scorched metal. There’s air rushing past his ears, and all he can see is Bucky reaching up for him. His muscles are locked, frozen in grief. 

He’s having an asthma attack for the first time since 1941. 

And then there’s a strong hand on his elbow, leading him away, out of the exhibit, out of the museum. He’s only peripherally aware of this. Just like he’s only peripherally aware of the fact that the hand on his elbow is not a threat. He’s sitting on the stoop of the Smithsonian, listening to a voice demanding that he take slow, deep breaths, when his vision swims back to the here and now. The Austrian snow scape fades into a summer day in Washington DC.

“About time,” a voice huffs.

“I’m okay,” Steve reassures, looking to his left. Clint Barton stares back, and then shakes his head, almost rueful.

“You’re actually not, but for now you’ll live.” Steve moves to protest, but Clint cuts him off. “Steve, you just had a panic attack. While staring at a poster from the 40s. You’re not okay.”

“It was an asthma attack,” Steve corrects. It may have been a long time since he had one, but that level of pain and fear is hard to forget.

“You’re literally superhuman. You can’t have asthma attacks. It was a panic attack. Which might feel like asthma, but isn’t actually a problem with your lungs.”

“Then what was it a problem with?”

“Your emotions,” Clint stands and offers a hand down to Steve. Steve is pleased that he can use Clint to lever himself up without hurting the other man. “You know what shell shock is?”

“I’m not shell shocked, Clint,” Steve says sharply.

“There’s a modern, more correct term for it. It’s called post traumatic stress disorder.” Clint’s leading them across the street towards a line of food trucks. “Modern science has shown that an enormous percentage of soldiers come back from war with PTSD. It’s not just memories and grief. It’s things so deep, so traumatic that we have panic attacks, we get thrown back into our worst memories just from seeing or hearing or smelling something that reminds us of something in our past. I have it. Natasha has it. I’ll bet you a billion dollars that Tony has it, whether he admits it or not. It’s not something to be ashamed of, Steve. It just means that we’ve seen things so powerfully terrible that they stay with us.”

“You have panic attacks?” Steve asks, as they get in line for a taco truck. “About New York?”

“Among other things,” Clint agrees. “Don’t you? I mean, maybe not panic attacks, but nightmares?”

“Yeah,” Steve admits. 

“I dream about New York. About the helicarrier. About Germany. And older things, like nights in Moscow, an afternoon in Tunisia, weeks in a Bulgarian prison.” Steve feels a lump form in his throat. Clint is a stronger man than Steve realized, to be able to confront things like this, to be able to talk about them. Steve watches the other man, as he orders them both lunch. Even after receiving plates piled high with street tacos, and finding a bench in the greens across from the Smithsonian, Steve is still watching. He can’t help but remember the first few days after the battle in New York. They all holed up in the R&D labs of Stark Tower. Tony had shown them the level of security on the labs, and after Natasha and Clint had decided that even they wouldn't be able to sneak in, they all crashed. Steve remembers waking up to Tony shouting himself out of nightmares, to Natasha reasoning with Clint calmly as he pointed a gun at her. He remembers Bruce meditating for hours on end, Thor speaking quietly into a cell phone to a woman he called his beloved. He remembers accidently startling Natasha and finding himself being tased viciously until Thor physically picked her up and she settled. He says as much to Clint and asks, “Is that what you’re talking about?”

“Yep,” Clint says in between shoving tacos in his mouth. “That’s post trauma stress. I figured you would have some from New York, but I guess I forgot about World War II. And so did everyone else. I mean, it’s been seventy years for us, but for you it’s been less than one, right?”

“Yeah. I mean I woke up and Fury tells me that we won the war. That what I did, what everyone I knew did, was worth it.” Steve’s not sure why he’s finally telling this to someone. Clint looks at Steve and understands, though, without judgement or expectation. 

“They’re all gone, aren’t they?” Clint asks.

“I haven’t had the heart to look. Fury told me that the rest of the Howling Commandos are dead, that they died of old age, not in the war.” Steve chokes half way through the word commandos. Clint doesn’t call him on it. “I want to go back in, see the rest.”

“Okay,” Clint agrees. He doesn’t offer to come with, he walks side by side with Steve as they go back in all the same. 

“Tony told you I was coming here?”

“Yep,” Clint shoots Steve a quick grin. “We figured he’d cause too much of a commotion. I’m better at low key.”

“Town criers are better at low key than Tony Stark.” Clint barks out a laugh, and Steve breathes easier at the sound. 

They skirt around the Howling Commandos section, and instead sit in a small theatre and listen to Peggy Carter talk about Captain America. When she talks about the winter of ‘42, Steve grips the seat hard enough to put dents in the plastic. Clint glances down as the chair creaks, but doesn’t say anything. He does, however, knock his shoulder against Steve’s. Steve leans into it, and they stay that way ‘til the end of the film. 

The last section they walk through is a small set of display cases about Steve’s life before the Army. There’s a life size photograph of him pre-serum. 

“You were seriously scrawny, weren’t you?” Clint smiles to soften the remark, and Steve matches it. He’s not ashamed. He’s once again grateful that he’s found people that say what they think, that don’t soften their words or shy away from topics. Steve’s found that most people find referencing him and his size and health pre-serum uncomfortable.

They look at pictures of his mother and the apartment building they lived in when he was a kid. There’s photographs of his school, of the corner store he worked his first job at and even of the cannery that was his last job before the Army. The last display is a shock. It’s some of his old sketchbooks. The label on the case simply says, “Steve Rogers was a prolific artist, with sketchbooks dating back to 1938. Most of his art was centered around landscapes.”

“What?” Steve is incredulous. Clint perks up from across the small room. 

“What’s up?”

“This,” Steve gestures angrily at the display case. The sketchbooks are open to sketches of the Brooklyn skyline and of the softly rolling hills outside Camp Lehigh. “These are practically the only landscapes I’ve ever drawn!”

Clint peers into the case, and then at the label. Snorts once and then pulls out his phone.

“Hey, Steve needs to get some stuff out of a display. Yeah,” Steve gives him a questioning look and Clint mouths “Tony” in explanation. “Yeah, his sketchbooks. Apparently they’ve lied about the content, too. Sure, thanks.”

“What does Tony say?” Steve asks after Clint hangs up.

“Pepper’s in DC, so she’s gonna meet us here in twenty.”

“What?” Steve feels horrible, “She’s probably got things way more important to be doing than look at seventy year old drawings.”

“Steve, the Smithsonian is lying about a national icon. That’s a pretty big deal.”

“Well, when you say it like that,” Steve follows Clint back towards the lobby. “Really it’s just the subjects of my old sketches.” Clint just shrugs.

They spend the next twenty minutes wandering through the early flight exhibit. Steve’s fascinated, but doesn’t want to keep Pepper waiting so he doesn’t drag his feet on the way back towards the lobby. Pepper and a gaggle of assistants and bodyguards are currently speaking with an officious little man with a Smithsonian nametag. 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Potts, but Stark Industries has no stock in Captain America memorabilia. I can’t just hand Smithsonian property over to you.”

“That is, of course, ignoring the fact that a great deal of the memorabilia was donated to the Smithsonian Museum in 1987 by Howard and Maria Stark.” Pepper says with a smile. “I’m also here on behalf of Captain America. Steve, how are you?”

Steve is a little shocked that Pepper noticed their approach, but greets her with as much poise as he can muster. “Very well, Pepper. How are you?”

“Excellent, thank you.” Giving a short nod to Clint, she turns back towards the Smithsonian bureaucrat. “Captain Rogers is here to reclaim some of his property. Of course, we could go through legal channels, but the fact is that his property was donated without his consent, by individuals that had no legal right. Shall I call in my legal team?” 

Pepper is terrifying. Steve knew that she had to be a tough lady to run Stark Industries, but he hasn’t seen her in action before now. Steve finds it more than a little impressive that she smiles the whole way through her threats of lawsuits. She reminds him of Peggy. 

“I can’t just,” the bureaucrat starts again, but changes his mind as Pepper starts dialing. “Which possessions?”

“All of my sketchbooks,” says Steve. “By the way, your label on the display case is completely wrong. I almost never drew landscapes. Mostly, I drew people and cartoons. I kinda would’ve figured you would know that if you went through my sketchbooks.”

The man swells to an alarmingly unattractive shade of tomato. “Yes, well. We’ll just take those out of the display for you then. Let me fetch those for you.” The man runs off. 

“What the hell is in those sketchbooks, Rogers?” laughs Clint. “There are racy drawings aren’t there?”

It’s Steve’s turn to flush a little. He wonders if there are any. He had certainly drawn some risque things in his life, but couldn’t remember exactly what he did with all of them. Clint takes one look at his face and lets out a long, low whistle.

“No one would ever believe it.” Steve shuffles uncomfortably, but doesn’t disagree. Colonel Phillips had once read him the riot act while at Camp Lehigh after he was caught sketching a pinup for one of the other recruits in exchange for stamps. 

In the end, there isn’t any further fuss, and Clint takes the package of sketchbooks and tucks them away in his car. Steve thanks Pepper profusely, but she waves it off with a smile, and a demand of a hug which Steve readily relents to. Clint agrees to meet Steve back in New York. He’s left alone with his thoughts for the four hour drive back to Stark Tower.

 

When Steve gets back to his room in Stark Tower, he’s not surprised to see his package of sketchbooks, still sealed (not that that would stop someone like Clint, but he trusts the man to keep his privacy intact), sitting on his neatly made bed. He strips out of his jacket, and then his street clothes for good measure and changes into workout clothes. He has a feeling he’ll end up in the gym sometime tonight.

He sits himself down at his desk, and flips open the oldest notebook. It was one of the ones on display, opened to a Brooklyn skyline. Some of the drawings are of the neighborhood he grew up in. The buildings, kids playing in the park, traffic on the street… Bucky. Page after page of Bucky, Steve’s ma, Bucky’s ma and sisters, Mrs. Felps from down the street, Mr. Fineman from next door, all the people in Steve’s life at the time. Steve scoffs at the idea that he might have spent most of his time landscapes. 

Landscapes are still lifes, and life is never still, so Steve rarely had the patience for it. When he did sketch out skylines and landscapes, it was usually from memory. People, on the other hand, people were life and motion and color and sound. People were the baker from central avenue that used to give Bucky rejects in the winter of ‘39. People were the manager at the cannery that fired Steve after he got pneumonia the second time in the winter of ‘41. 

Steve spent almost an hour flipping slowly through the first sketchbook, working his way into the second, which was mostly full of sketches from the world fair and then Camp Lehigh, and part of his first tours. The third (and two hours in) were of the Star Spangled Man with a Plan tours. Endless sketches of the dancers and Senator Brandt and of a dancing monkey performing night after night.

When Steve reaches the fourth, he has to pause, and breath deep breathes like Bruce showed him. Pause some more. Breath again. And again. Keep breathing, Rogers. (Despite being Bruce’s tactics, the voice sounds suspiciously like Clint Barton). It’s a smallish book, bound in leather. It hadn’t been on display, but Steve’s not surprised about that. It was the last sketchbook he owned before… 

It had been a gift from Dum Dum of all people. He had noticed that Steve’s sketchbook was full, and had bartered for it from a Frenchman. His only request after presenting it to Steve unceremoniously was that Steve sketch him and the other Commandos so that he could send it in a letter back home to his sister. Steve remembers the hint of tears in Dum Dum’s eyes when Steve presented him with a full, colored drawing of the commandos with Dum Dum center stage, bowler and cigar at jaunty angles. 

Steve breathes deeply enough to finally flip open the first page. It’s a sketch of Dernier and Jones playing cards. The next is Morita bent over a letter. The next is a cartoon of the Star Spangled Man with a Plan tour girls lined up as if they were doing the can-can. The skirts are too short, and the curves too obviously embellished; he’d drawn if for the amusement of the boys. The next is a bombed out chaple in a French countryside. The next is a sketch, dark lines and vicious shading, of a line of trenches framed with barbed wire. The next page, Steve had clearly tried to salvage, but there were imprints from the previous page, and the Austrian mountainscape is flat and forced. The next page is of Bucky.

Steve’s heart stutters. His lungs close up, throat seizing, mouth watering, eyes watering. And then he realizes he’s crying. It’s not until a hand lands on his shoulder, that Steve realizes that he’s sobbing. Through his tears he can make out streaks of red and blue and black. Natasha. He turns his face into her arms, her stomach. He remembers Peggy holding him after- after- after-

Steve can’t breath. Natasha shushes him gently, coaxing him into breathing deep. Nothing like Clint demanding and cajoling. Gentle and barely there suggestions instead. Soon enough, his breathing is actually breathing instead of wheezing and his tears have mostly dried up. Natasha sits on his desk next to the still open sketchbook. 

“He’s handsome.” Steve snorts. That’s an understatement. Bucky was devastating, all the dames chased after him, hung off of his every word. Hell, Steve chased after him and hung off of his every word more than any girl. “This is James Barnes?”

“Bucky,” Steve chokes out. “His name was Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Natasha corrects herself. “You knew him growing up?”

“He was my best friend. We were inseparable as kids. It wasn’t until he got drafted that we spent any real time apart.” Steve takes a few more deep breaths. “I kept trying to enlist after he got drafted. In some ways, I think I started trying even harder.” It feels like giving too much away, but Steve trusts Natasha.

“When was this?” Natasha distracts him. Steve looks down at the picture. It was not long after the Commandos went into the field with an official commision. They were in France, and Bucky had just started sleeping more than an hour at a time. That morning had dawned grey and cold, but when Steve got up, Bucky had still been asleep. Though as soon as the coffee (chicory, but it was close enough for them) was started, Bucky was up. Steve caught him cradling a cup of coffee, steam rising from the mug, blanket still around his shoulders. Bucky has his normal cocky grin on his face though, despite the cold. Steve remembers that being the trigger for him pulling his sketchbook out. Bucky had cooperated too, throwing him the same grin throughout breakfast, somehow indulging Steve even in this. 

“Natasha,” Steve starts. He’s not sure how that sentence is going to end, but she seems to understand anyway. She pulls him into a hug and then pulls him to his feet. She gently tucks a post-it onto the side of the page and then closes the sketchbook. She leads him down to the gym.

Steve shreds two punching bags before Thor finds his way into the arena. Steve notices the rising sun through the windows but pays it no mind. Thor offers to spar, Steve happily agrees. Steve isn’t really seeing Thor. He sees instead rank after rank of Hydra soldiers, tanks and explosions, and a train speeding through the snow. He sees Zola’s lab, and his best friend strapped to a table. He sees Zola’s fighting machine and a snow coated canyon. He can’t hear anything other than his labored breathing. 

He spars until he drops. Thor helpfully drags him to his bed. He sleeps without dreaming. He’s incredibly thankful of that. 

 

“He’s still out?” Clint asks. 

“Mmhmm,” Natasha is seemingly more interested in the bubble game on her phone. Clint knows better though. It’s all about location, they say. She’s sitting across the hall from Steve’s room, on a strategically placed settee. 

Clint understands her worry, shares it even. He takes a seat next to her and opens a bubble game on his phone as well.

 

_He’s dreaming. It’s 1942. After Zola, before Zola on a train. They’re in France. They have two days leave. They slept for most of the first, followed by a night out on the town. The second day, Bucky leads him to a bakery and they use up some of their GI pay on scones and tea and provolone filled croissants. They take a walk through the town, just Bucky and Steve. Not Sergeant Barnes and Captain America. Not Howling Commandos, not even Americans. (Bucky and Steve have both had counselling from Derniere and Jones and can cover their American accents well enough while speaking conversational French now)._

_Steve and Bucky spend the day together. They forget, in turns, that Steve is no longer eight inches shorter than Bucky, instead almost two inches taller. They’ve both had time to slowly get used to this new fact, but Bucky still slings his arm around Steve’s neck, only now pulling Steve’s head down to his level, instead of Bucky ducking his head down to Steve’s._

_They find their way back to their room for the night. (No tents! And a real shower! They’re easy to please these days. Not that they were a hard sell before the Army.) There are two beds in the second floor room, and they have their gear divvied up between them. The first night they had practically face planted into the beds and hadn’t moved. Tonight there’s more thought involved._

_Bucky throws open the window and lights a cigarette. Out of habit from Steve’s asthma days, he sits himself half in the window frame, and keeps himself facing the outdoors. Steve, now able to tolerate the smell and the smoke, leans against the frame next to Bucky, shoulders touching as they both look out over the French countryside._

_“Not quite Brooklyn,” Bucky murmurs._

_“Mm,” Steve agrees. He means to say something with actual words, but can’t think of anything Bucky doesn’t already know, isn’t already thinking._

_“Don’t hurt yourself,” Bucky turns to him with a grin. Steve rolls his eyes. Leaning as he is, he’s almost the proper height, looking up at Bucky. “No really, I can hear you thinking yourself into circles. What’s on your mind?”_

_“Sleep with me?” Steve blurts. That’s not what he means-_

_“Why, soldier, I had no idea,” Bucky jokes. He stubs out his cigarette, closes the window most of the way and pulls Steve towards the closest bed, Bucky’s._

_“Buck, that’s not what I meant. I mean, like when we were kids-”_

_“I know, you punk,” Bucky laughs, still tugging, this time tugging Steve out of his jacket and then shirt. “Like when we were kids,” he agrees._

_They end up tangled just like when they were little. (Even though, “when we were kids” is the phrase they use for anything pre-Army). One notable difference is that they are now both grown men. Not that Steve wasn’t grown before. But 5’4” is a far cry from 6’2”. And two men in the neighborhood of six feet tall in a single bed makes the small piece of furniture groan in protest. They grin at each other conspiratorially when it holds._

_“I’m afraid, Buck,” Steve whispers into the warm air between their coiled bodies._

_“I know. I’m scared, too, Steve,” Bucky reassures._

_“When do you think we’ll be able to go home?”_

_“When the Nazis and Hydra are dealt with. When we’ve won.”_

_“Then what?”_

_“Then we’ll go home. We’ll rent out a much nicer apartment than the shitty one on avenue A. We’ll get good, clean jobs and live happily off of our GI money. We’ll get that dog you were always beggin’ for.” Steve smiles into Bucky’s neck, curled into him like he was ten inches and a hundred pounds smaller. If they cry, neither one would ever admit it._

_And if they kiss once, twice. They never tell anyone about that either._

 

Steve wakes up with tears on his faces and faces the fact that it isn’t a dream. It’s a warm, happy memory. 

 

The Mars Volta is raging on the workshop speakers. Tony is bobbing his head to the beat, occasionally reaching for a tool here, pushing Dummy away gently there. He’s vaguely aware that the door slides open and then closes a second later. He’s not worried; Jarvis wouldn’t let anyone but a handful of people into his space. He finishes reassembling Bruce’s tablet and then looks up to see who’s come to his shop. He’s a little surprised to see Steve Rogers standing awkwardly, almost at attention, just inside the doorway. He had been informed of both Steve’s panic attack at the Smithsonian, and his reaction to the contents of his own notebook and the resulting sparring session with the resident god of thunder. 

“Captain,” Tony greets, gesturing at a chair on the other side of his bench. Steve takes the seat gingerly. 

“Mr. Stark,” Steve greets back. After a few beats of silence, Tony fills it. (He really can’t help his hatred of empty silence). 

“What can I do for you?” 

“I,” Steve starts, and then furrows his eyebrows, and then appears to change his mind. “There was something your father was working on back in ‘42.” 

“There were a lot of things dad was working on in 1942, you’re going to have to be more specific. Hell, he was searching for you in 1942, he was researching arc reactor technology, he was trying to figure out the serum.” Tony stops while he’s ahead. 

“Before I crashed the Hydra ship and killed the Red Skull, Howard was looking for something in Austria for me.” Tony can’t decipher the look on Steve’s face. It’s some bizarre combo of grief and anger and hope and a suffering so intense that Tony looks away uncomfortably. Grabbing his tablet off of the table next to him, he slowly starts pulling up files and records from 1942. 

“What was he looking for?” 

“The body of a soldier that was KIA.” Tony looks at Steve. He’s the same picture of grief, but with more steel. “His name was James Barnes.” 

“Of the Howling Commandos?” Tony starts scrolling in earnest. “Yeah, I’ve got search grids both in the winter of ‘42 and then in the summers of ‘43 through ‘45. After that… nothing really. I guess he gave up. There was no evidence of a body, but in ‘45 they found evidence of wolves.” 

“Wolves,” Steve sighs. Tony can’t help the facts. If the body was scavenged by wolves there wouldn’t’ve been any point to keep searching. “Thanks for checking, Tony.” 

“I can check again,” Tony says, not satisfied. 

“There’s not really any point though, is there? I mean if Howard didn’t find anything right after it happened, how are you going to find anything seventy years later?” 

“I’ll try some different things just in case,” Tony decides. He’s very good at ignoring what’s possible or even what’s likely when he puts his mind to it. Steve spares him a smile. 

“So, what are you working on?” Tony finishes initiating the search algorithm to comb Austria, and turns back to Bruce’s tablet. 

“I was upgrading Bruce’s computer. Speaking of, I’ll need to steal yours sometime soon to do the same. 

“What does it do now?” 

“I increased the wireless charging range. Now as long as you’re on this floor or the residence floors, the upgraded tablets will continuously be charging.” He doesn’t use his normal technobabble, not when Steve asks so nicely. 

They talk about wireless power and the internet. Tony likes talking to Steve. He’s not unintelligent, just under-educated in modern technology, which Tony is slowly trying to remedy. It’s a nice way to spend an afternoon. 

That evening Tony scrolls through the results of his search. It looks like his search algorithm overlaps his father’s almost exactly. The only difference appears to be the start point. Meaning that there’s a chance that, had Howard started on the other side of his grid, he may have been able to find Bucky Barnes’s body. Tony finds no pleasure in the cold, hard facts that night. 

 

Steve goes to work for SHIELD. Natasha goes with him. Clint disappears, though he checks in with Natasha every 24 hours. Thor returns to Asgard. Tony and Bruce research and build all sorts of new things, most of which never see the light outside of Tony’s workshop. 

Natasha and Steve move to DC, and end up living nearly eight blocks away from each other. Steve likes his little apartment filled with books and music. Tony sends him boxes of books and films. Bruce sends textbooks and cookbooks. Occasionally he gets dvds from an anonymous source that he knows without Natasha’s confirmation are actually from Clint. Natasha seems to “just happened to find” records on a startlingly regular basis. 

Steve tries to return the favor. He finds the funniest tabloid stories he can about Tony and sends them to the billionaire. He keeps tabs on Betty Ross for Bruce. He’s found an expert reenactment bowyer to make strange gadgets for Clint, which Natasha assures him are being received. He sends Pepper flowers every time he sees her dealing with horrible criticism on the nightly news. He allows Natasha to amuse herself with threatening to set him up on a blind date or convince him to ask someone out for coffee. 

Steve thinks, for the first time in years, that everything’s gonna be okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> … I’ll just leave this here… 
> 
> Wanna come say hi? I'm at: kiscico.tumblr.com


End file.
